


Terms and Conditions

by Raspberry_Blond



Series: Satisfaction Guaranteed [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-13
Updated: 2012-10-13
Packaged: 2017-11-16 06:15:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,419
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/536399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Raspberry_Blond/pseuds/Raspberry_Blond
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Greg and Mycroft have lunch and talk over a few things.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Terms and Conditions

**Author's Note:**

> The "first day" is actually going to consist of three standalone fics. The 2-30th days will each be their own fics.
> 
> Thanks to all for kudoing and commenting!

It was a glorious sight, and through his own quiet chuckling, Mycroft could admit that he was dazzled by the picture of Gregory Lestrade, his head thrown back, giving vent to the full-throated laughter that made his entire body jerk as if it were on strings.

 

Tears trickled out of the corner of his eyes, and he wiped at them hastily, trying to calm down, only to lose it once more and fall into another round of guffawing, bringing Mycroft along for the ride.

 

The memory of Sherlock and John giggling together in an audience room in Buckingham Palace flashed into Mycroft's mind. He'd been annoyed by their show of mirth, primarily because it was aimed at _him_ , but also because it reminded him that _he_ and Sherlock had never laughed together like that, had never shared a joke that made them both boneless with glee. And moreover, he'd never laughed with anyone else in that manner, ever.

 

Until now.

 

“You … w-wait ...” Gregory gasped, grasping both arms of the chair and trying valiantly to get himself together. He took a few deep breaths, the tears shining on his cheeks.

 

“H-How … how long did he go about like that?”

 

“He said an hour, but I could tell it had been more than three.” Mycroft smirked. “He was quite inebriated, but that was the least of his problems.”

 

“Christ, I'll bet! And when did he realized he'd left his –”

 

“He and his entourage were already back at the Embassy. The minute the gates closed, he realized his mistake. The press was everywhere, so it was out of the question that he should go back out and try to recover it himself.”

 

“And that's where you came in, eh?” Greg was smiling. “How long did it take you? Fifteen minutes?”

 

“A bit more than that. But not very much more.” Mycroft looked down at his desk. “I … _persuaded_ my brother to assist me.”

 

“Sherlock? Really?” Greg frowned thoughtfully. “Wouldn't he have been a bit on the young side for all that? Not that I can imagine Sherlock ever really being _young_ , but ...”

 

“Not very. He was 19, and in uni. And quite bored, as it turned out. He nearly jumped at the opportunity.” Mycroft paused. “His behavior was beginning to be … worrisome. I thought it as well to bring him along for his deductive abilities – and to keep an eye on him.”

 

Greg nodded. “And so you two were able to save the day, yeah?”

  
“Well, we persuaded the lady that it would be in her best interest to return the item in question. She'd been planning on going to the Sun …”

 

“Fuck … now _that_ would have been an international incident.”

 

“Quite. But, it all ended very satisfactorily for all parties.”

 

Mycroft took up the item that had sparked the conversation – a gray plush toy in the shape of an oversize, anthropomorphized screw. It had button eyes and a faintly obscene leer, and was the sort of thing that looked innocuous and faintly ridiculous on the surface, but had a hidden meaning all its own that only the most clever could decipher.

 

The gift was much like the man himself, Mycroft thought with a small grin.

 

“He sends me something every year on my birthday that reminds him of that interesting night. It's always something along these lines – an inside joke, as it were, between the two of us. He's perhaps one of his country's most brilliant politicians, as the world knows, and endlessly amusing, as you can see.”

 

Greg tilted his head. “Does it ever get awkward? I mean, you have dealings with his wife, yeah?”

 

“Oh yes. I see Secretary Clinton regularly. One or twice every few months. Charming woman.”

 

“D'you ever wonder what she'd say if she knew that you, Sherlock and half the U.S. Secret Service had once gone out combing the West End for his –”

 

“-- I think she has no illusions when it comes to her husband,” said Mycroft with a slight shrug. “No doubt their arrangement works for them.”

 

“Guess so.” Greg eyed the screw. “Gives you something every year, huh? I suppose you should just be glad he hasn't sent along a blue dress.”

 

Mycroft's lips twitched and again they both fell apart. Mycroft, to his surprise and mild horror, was almost hiccuping, and Greg whooped and nearly fell backward in his chair as the laughter reverberated around the room.

 

It had been quite the afternoon.

 

Lunch had been exquisite and Greg had done better than Mycroft had hoped, navigating the unfamiliar cuisine. He'd gamely tried all of it, maintaining his enthusiasm throughout, although it was clear that there were some things he'd not been very keen on.

 

They'd chatted easily, and as they'd eaten, more gifts and cards arrived for Mycroft. Some of them he placed in a locked bin that would be delivered to a security team later for further … _perusal_ , and others, like his new toy, and a particularly bizarre telegram he'd received from the Russian Prime Minister, he'd opened and shared with Greg.

 

His mobile had buzzed throughout, and after about the 10th text message, Mycroft had silenced the bloody thing. Sherlock was working himself into a fine frenzy, which ordinarily would have concerned the elder Holmes, but he reckoned that his brother would try to be on his best behavior around John. For awhile, anyway.

 

Besides, he didn't want to be distracted by his brother's nonsense from the delights of Gregory Lestrade. The time simply had flown, and Mycroft felt more at ease and engaged than he had in quite some time. Lestrade was no affected automaton, sitting primly at the edge of his seat and choreographing his every move so that he became as inconsequential as the scenery. He was just so … _natural._ From the small noises of contentment he made while he ate, to the way his lovely eyes widened right before he broke into that infectious laugh …

 

_Quite lovely … and mine. For a limited time only._

 

The thought drained away some of Mycroft's good mood and he realized with a start that they had been silently staring at each other for several long moments. Mycroft reckoned that if he blushed now, at least he could blame it on the pora they'd eaten, which had been unusually spicy.

 

He cleared his throat. “So ...”

 

“So. About unwrapping that present ...” The twinkle was back.

 

Mycroft held up a hand. “Not quite yet. It's time, I think, for the two of us to talk.”

 

“I sorta thought we _had_ been talking. Eating, too, but talking all the same.”

 

“I rather meant talking about _us_ … and the next 30 days.” Mycroft's eyes narrowed slightly. “It would probably be prudent if we discussed and clarified certain things … aspects of our nature … expectations … and anything that will inform our conduct toward one another while we remain in this … relationship.”  
  
One side of Greg's mouth lifted into a smirk. “Oh. So you mean you want to have **THE TALK**.”

 

The auburn-haired man blinked. “ **THE TALK**?”

 

“Yeah. It's what happens after you decide to be full-on with someone. You have a little chat about expectations, hopes, dreams, all that. **THE TALK**. ”

 

Mycroft mulled that. “ _That's_ what people call it? And in _that_ tone of voice?”

 

“Well, it's a big deal, usually. Before you have it, you don't know if you're just arsing around with someone or if they're just hanging about until something better comes along. When you have **THE TALK** , you at least know that you're headed to something serious. It may not last, but, you know that at least you're charted there.”

 

“Must it sound so dire?” Mycroft looked vaguely distressed. “When you say those words, you sound as if you are discussing your pending evisceration.”

 

Greg grinned. “Some of my mates might think that comparison pretty spot-on. It can be a bit heavy, but all my experience has been with women. I've never had it with a bloke before.”

 

“Well, I'll try not to make it too tedious or … sinister,” said Mycroft lightly, absently stroking the head of the screw plushie. “I just thought it as well that we have some guidelines so that there are no surprises. Some terms and conditions, as it were.”

 

Lestrade's smile vanished. “C'mon, Mycroft, I know this isn't usually how a relationship starts, but could you at least make it sound a bit more like you're dealing with a _person_ and less like you just bought a new mobile?”

 

Mycroft was genuinely puzzled. “I don't understand. You agreed that we needed to have a discussion to clarify certain issues.”

 

“Sure, but … 'terms and conditions' sounds like you're about to close a business deal.” Greg ran a hand over his hair. “This _isn't_ that. I'm here of my own free will. You've got to believe that, Mycroft, or we might as well bin this whole thing.”

 

Mycroft stared into the earnest face and felt his heart sink. Greg was being so open with him, but he could not shake his discomfort with the idea that at bottom, this was one of Sherlock's infernal “experiments” – or worse. He wanted to just relax and enjoy the next month with Gregory, but he didn't feel he could completely relax his guard without knowing just what his _dear_ little brother had cooking in that brilliantly twisted head of his.

 

But he figured that he'd do well to hide his suspicions from Greg. As had been determined, Lestrade was just as much a pawn in this game as Mycroft himself. And if he were going to be utterly debased and denigrated at the end of all this, he should try to take his pleasures where he could.

 

“I apologize, Gregory. I meant nothing by it,” he said with a conciliatory smile. “I've no practical experience in these sort of … discussions. I was merely trying to be expedient, considering our timetable. Perhaps I should cede the floor to you, as you've obviously had great experience in this vein.”

 

The tension left Greg's face and he nodded. “It's okay. I get it. It's just … well … one of the things I hope happens, if nothing else, is that I'll convince you that you're an amazing man Mycroft Holmes. Anyone would be lucky to have you on his arm or _be_ on yours. I feel like the jammiest bloke in the world that I'll have you on mine. Even if it's only temporary.”

 

Mycroft felt his cheeks burn and Greg laughed softly.

 

“You're so bloody gorgeous when you blush. They make your freckles stand out all the more. Your freckles … they're all over, yeah? Across your back? Over your chest? Down your –”

 

Mycroft adjusted his tie. “Yes, well, I suppose in due time, we'll get to that.”

 

“Can that be sometime in the next five minutes?”

 

Greg's voice was mildly teasing, but his eyes were dark and glittering. Mycroft could see his pupils dilating and he could practically hear Greg's pulse jumping up a tick.

 

“Does shagging always immediately follow **THE TALK**?”

 

Greg smirked. “Not always, but as you said, we've got a pretty tight timetable.”

 

On the word “tight,” Greg's hand did something _very_ interesting and his half-smile turned almost predatory. Mycroft opted not think on it very hard. He'd just had those particular trousers laundered, after all.

 

“So it didn't immediately follow these conversations you had with other … lovers?”

 

Lestrade grinned, silently acknowledging that Mycroft was rather unsubtly changing the subject.

 

“Well, no. I mean, we were shagging beforehand, so it didn't make much difference. But usually afterward, sex was a fair bit better. I guess it was down to feeling more comfortable and confident that you were with someone you really fancied and not just someone to warm your bed for a night.”

 

“Surely your partners understood that you saw more in them than just a willing orifice – or three.”

 

“Three? But … oh. Right.”

 

Lestrade pinkened, and though he had no freckles to speak of, the effect charmed Mycroft just as much as his flush had charmed Greg.

 

“Well, sure, they knew I fancied them for reasons other than sex, but I suppose some people like the words. With Karen –”

 

He stopped and looked a bit put out.

 

“Sorry. I don't reckon you want to hear about how I got off with my ex-wife.”

 

“If it is germane to our situation, I don't see why not,” said Mycroft with a shrug. “You had a past. It would be foolish to pretend as if you did not. If a past experience of yours is something that will give me insight into the sort of man you are in a romantic relationship, then I must know it.”

 

“A-all right. I don't know how much _insight_ it'll give you, but ...” Greg drew a sigh. “With Karen … it … I know I'll sound like a clot choking on sour grapes, but … I wasn't head over heels for her at first. We met in a pub. She was gorgeous, funny, smart, and I loved that I was the one who got to walk out with her. My mates' jaws were on the floor. But I wasn't all that keen early on. I was 32, I'd just made sergeant, up to my eyeballs in corpses every day, and she wasn't exactly a fan of Yarders. I think that if she'd cottoned on to the fact that I was a copper early on, she wouldn't have let me buy her that round. But anyway, I did like being with her. It was nice to have someone to talk to, watch telly with, get take-away with, all that.”

 

Mycroft looked thoughtful. “And there was the shagging.”

 

Greg half-smiled. “There was a lot of that. I was enjoying myself but I wasn't thinking about the future, really. I just knew I was with a girl I liked and she liked me back. It was nice and uncomplicated, and I was fine about keeping it that way. But one day she came to mine in a right strop, and I asked her what was wrong. She beat around the bush for a bit, but finally she came out with it. A few of her work mates were organizing a pub crawl and invited her to go. When she asked if she could bring me along, she said one of the birds asked her if I was her boyfriend, and Karen said she didn't know what to say. That she felt like shite at that moment because she didn't know if we were just messing about or on to something serious. She knew I hadn't been seeing other women and I didn't think she was seeing other blokes, so that wasn't it. She just wanted to hear me say: 'Yes, I'm your boyfriend.' I didn't see anything wrong with it, so I said the words. Then we talked everything over.”

 

“Everything?” Mycroft rested his chin on his fist. “But you'd been keeping company for two months. Surely you knew many things about each other by that time …”

 

“A bit, but things change when you become official,” said Greg. “There's more expectations, for one. Like monogamy. Technically, before **THE TALK** , either of us could've gotten a cuppa … or something … with someone we were interested in. It wouldn't have been on, but it wouldn't have been _wrong,_ really. After we talked, that couldn't happen. We also talked about how often we should see each other. Someone I'm just having fun with, I'll see on a weekend night and the next morning for breakfast, and that's it. A girlfriend – or boyfriend – I'm going to want to be around the whole bloody weekend plus stopping by during the week just to kip with her – or, uh, him – and spend time.

 

“Karen didn't much care how often we saw each other. I guess she reckoned my job would take me away some nights. But she wanted me to ring every day. This was a little bit before cellphones could practically fit under your fingernail, so that was hard. Texting was nonexistent. But it was reasonable of her to expect to talk to me every day if I was her boyfriend. Anyway, those are a couple of the things we talked over, and pretty standard for any relationship that turns serious.”

 

“I see.” Mycroft nodded gravely. “Yes. Thank you, Gregory. That was very helpful information.”

 

“Was it? Well I'm glad it helped _you_.” Greg suddenly sounded weary. “All it helped me to do is realize how bleeding old I am. That was 17 years ago … fucking hell.”

 

“It's a bit late in the day for hyperbole. You're _hardly_ old,” Mycroft said. “And yes, it was extremely helpful to hear you speak, albeit briefly, of how you choose to conduct yourself in relationships and what you expect.”

 

“Right. “ Greg scoffed. “Like you couldn't just look at my shirt cuffs or something and be able to figure me out completely.”

 

“Perhaps.” Mycroft smiled. “But, as you said … some people need to hear the words.”

 

Greg's grin faded and he gazed at him, leaning forward a little.

 

“Mycroft. I need to kiss you.”

 

Greg's voice was low, not quite desperate, but close enough to it to make the hairs on Mycroft's neck stand on end.

 

“Pardon?”

 

“I need. To Kiss. You.” Greg sucked his bottom lip between his teeth. “Right now. That's a thing, isn't it? A birthday kiss?”

 

The elder Holmes' breath caught in his throat, but he let it out imperceptibly. The way Lestrade was staring at him …

 

Mycroft Holmes was 42 years old. He'd held his current position quite a long time. There had been many people who'd sat where Greg was sitting – in that same chair, even. He'd been gazed at from across that desk by royalty, by heads of state, by madmen … he'd catalogued every expression that was aimed his way, from admiration, to grudging respect, to open hatred, to knee-shaking fear.

 

But _never_ had someone looked at him the way Gregory Lestrade was doing at that moment. With longing … with naked, earnest desire.

 

Mycroft wet his lips.

 

Greg made a soft sound at the back of his throat. “Do that again and I'm vaulting across this ruddy desk.”

 

The taller man paused, his eyelids drifting downward. Very deliberately, he painted his top lip with the tip of his tongue.

 

It was only when he swiped his bottom lip that Greg Lestrade began to move.

 

But he didn't catapult himself over the desk as threatened. He rose quite gracefully from his chair, walked quite unhurriedly around the desk, turned Mycroft's chair deftly toward him, and reached down to pull him bodily to his feet by his his dress shirt.

 

Mycroft didn't have time to register a complaint about the impropriety of fisting a shirt made of Muga silk, because Greg was staring up at him with coal-black eyes, his breath puffing through slightly parted lips.

 

He felt blood pounding in his ears, and to his great chagrin he began blinking rapidly like a new-hatched bird as Lestrade's burning eyes searched his. Mycroft was not aware that the fists had unwound themselves from his shirt until Greg's hands were cupping the sides of his face, and the last sight of Greg that Mycroft had before his eyelids fluttered shut was of the detective licking his lips in a direct imitation of his own actions.

 

The kiss was gentle – not timid – but not a tongue-thrusting, saliva-swapping affair, either. One might call it exploratory. Mycroft would have termed it extraordinary. Greg's mouth molded to his, lips sliding delicately over his own.

 

Lestrade's hands moved from his face to his hair, and Mycroft followed suit, burying his fingers in the soft, silvery strands as they broke apart and then came back together in a series of rapid-fire, open-mouthed snogs. He was becoming painfully aroused and was grateful that there was some space between himself and Gregory. Mycroft knew his response was natural, but he didn't quite want Greg to know just how quickly he was undone.

 

When they separated moments later, Greg's breathing was labored and his face was flushed. His fingers were working rhythmically over Mycroft's scalp and it was all the taller man could do to keep from tilting his head back and sinking into the sensation.

 

“God, it's best that I ran like hell when I wanted to do that last year,” said Greg thickly. “I wouldn't've been able to stop. It would've been all over the Daily Mail next morning – Married D.I. Snogs the Life out of British Government at Gruesome Crime Scene. They might have even gotten a shot of Sherlock in the background looking as if he'd been bollocked.”

 

The delicious shivers that the kiss had occasioned dissipated at the mention of his younger brother. Mycroft's gaze drifted down Lestrade's body and came to rest on the gaudy ribbon still looped around his thigh.

 

“Your mouth … God ...” Lestrade was murmuring. “Even better than I imagined.”

 

Mycroft swallowed and removed himself from the circle of Lestrade's arms. Greg looked stunned and caught Mycroft's sleeve.

 

“What's wrong? You – you didn't like that?”

 

Mycroft couldn't help a small smile. Lestrade must have been distracted indeed. All he needed to do was look down to be able to gauge just how much he'd _liked_ their kiss.

 

“It was … lovely,” said Mycroft softly. “But it occurs to me that I have a very important meeting in 15 minutes and it would be best if didn't look as if I'd just had the breath snogged out of me.”

 

Lestrade's face broke into a relieved grin. “That good, eh? Wait … a meeting? When you got me the afternoon off, I figured you'd be off, too.”

 

“I'm sorry, Gregory.” Mycroft buried his hands in his pockets and kept his eyes down. “The situation in Egypt has not – despite all appearances to the contrary – settled down into any sense of normalcy. This meeting is, regrettably, quite important.”

 

“But we didn't even get to _your_ part of **THE TALK**. I need to know what you like, too.”

 

Greg was pouting, and with his kiss-swollen lips, the effect was startling. Mycroft shoved his hands even deeper into his pockets, his fingers flexing against the soft lining and recalling the silkiness of Lestrade's hair.

 

“I mean, I'm not you or Sherlock. I can't just tell ...”

 

Mycroft looked up, and he wasn't quite sure what his expression was conveying to Lestrade, but the other man stopped abruptly and looked sheepish, rubbing the back of his neck.

 

“I'm sorry. I get that it's important. Just … this has been the best day I've had in awhile. I'm not happy it has to end.” He leaned in and straightened Mycroft's tie, his hands lingering a bit. “Guess we can pick this up tonight, yeah?”

 

“Tonight?”

 

Greg gave him an incredulous look. “Of course! It's your birthday, Mycroft. What sort of boyfriend would I be if I didn't have plans for _tonight_?”

 

“Plans?” Mycroft stared at him, brows knit. “Without knowing how I'd receive all of … this,” he waved toward the bow, “you made plans?”

 

“Had to be optimistic, didn't I?” Greg smiled softly. “I figured on dinner, and I managed tickets to that Persian art exhibit at the National.”

 

“Ah. Well. That does sound like a very … pleasant evening.” The elder Holmes smoothed his lapels in order to hide his astonishment. “Though, I seem to recall that exhibition not opening to the public until next week.”

 

“Opening to the public, yeah. But tonight they're holding a VIP do. I may not get joke gifts from world leaders, but I do have a bit of pull.” Greg winked at him.

 

Mycroft considered this. _Sherlock … he must have … but no, he would simply tell me that Sherlock had procured the tickets. There'd be no reason for him not to do so, considering everything. But …_

 

“Mycroft? That is okay, isn't it?” Greg was peering at him anxiously. “I mean, I sort of assumed you'd not have anything on for tonight, but if you do –”

 

“No.” Mycroft managed a smile. “I don't, in fact. And the exhibit had caught my eye. Very clever of you to get tickets for tonight, before they undoubtedly ruin it by putting the best pieces in corners no one would think to look.”

 

“Except you, that is.” Greg shook his head. “Right. Well, I made the booking for dinner at 8. Shall I come to pick you up at yours around 7:30?”

 

Mycroft was going to suggest that he come round to Greg's and pick him up, but thought better of it. He'd made the plans and obviously he wanted to be in control of how the evening unfolded. Mycroft knew enough to pick up on those cues. So Lestrade was something of an old-fashioned man, bent toward courtship and chivalry.

 

_Interesting …_

 

“Yes, that should be fine.” Mycroft took one of his business cards and scrawled his address on the back. “I am … looking forward to it.”

 

“Me too.” Greg leaned in for a gentle peck. “Don't forget … you've got a present to unwrap.”

 

Mycroft laughed beneath his breath, curling his fingers around one loop of the ribbon. He felt Greg stiffen beside him, holding his breath.

 

“Yes, well, perhaps you should wear this tonight … _under_ your clothing?”

 

“Yeah, maybe.” Greg's eyes were glittering again. “But I won't say exactly _where_ it'll be.”

 

Mycroft grinned and watched the Detective Inspector walk out, leaving the room just a little darker than when he'd been in it. Sighing, Mycroft sat back down, running the pad of his thumb over his bottom lip. Greg's mouth had been delectable. And it was all his for the next 30 days.

 

He ruminated on that point for a moment and took out his mobile. Scrolling past the numerous outraged texts from his brother, he hesitated on the last one that had been sent.

 

**Enjoying yourself? - SH**

 

Mycroft grimaced and put away the mobile, not sure that he could trust himself with a response. He did not want Sherlock to know that he was completely at sea as regards his "gift." 

 

His eye fell on the screw plushie and he sighed, remembering his and Greg's shared hilarity. But after a moment, he put it into the bottom-most drawer of his desk and rang Anthea to ask her to ready the usual thank-you telegrams. That done, he spent the rest of his workday at his desk, staring at nothing in particular, with his chin resting on steepled fingers.

  
 _What in God's name have I gotten myself into?  
_


End file.
